fifty years ago, through the eyes of a six year old child, i see my grandma, rosena mclarnon. to me she was pretty and kind. and from what i remember she could tell a great story.
she came from ireland, to canada and then to brooklyn, new york. i remember her when she and my grandpa lived on greenway circle in syosset, long island.
we took the subway, then the railroad out from "the city" to visit. sometimes we had to change tracks in jamaica and instead of going up and down the stairs to the next platform, my dad would grab our hands and run through a waiting train to get across. it was scary and exhilarating all at the same time. on the train you could pull the backs of the green leather seats back and forth so my brother and i sat across from our parents and watched out the window on our ride to "the island". the conductor would shout out the names of the towns along the route, holding out the first syllable of each one: miiiiinnnn-eola, hiiiicks-ville, syyyyyy-osset. it was an adventure.
my grandma was a smoker. it didn't seem unusual then. she died in 1960, it was my first experience with death.
i can see her clearly, sitting on the couch in her living room, in a black and yellowish patterned house-dress, her skin was so white you could see the veins in her legs. there were louvers on the windows and the smoke drifted out. like my memory.
What a lovely and honest tribute to a grandmother. It's great to see these entries - hankies seem to lend themselves to sentimentality.
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